The Ways of Wisdom
by frigginapplepie
Summary: If he goes, he might miss it. If he blinks, it might be gone. If he turns his back, it might never come again.


He doesn't know how long it's been, nor does he care. It's wet – it's always that way when it's raining and pouring and raining some more just because Mother Nature has a stick up her ass – and cold – because the wind just won't stop blowing, and for God's sake, it's fucking freezing – and he wishes more than anything that he had a blanket. No, not a blanket, but a bottle of Jack Daniels and a freakin' mobile thermal heater. Two, even. Everything's better in pairs.

It occurs to him that at any minute he could turn around and head back to the Impala, all glossy and soaked and sexy in a way that only a car could be. The same thing that tells him that's an option, though, orders that he stays put and keep staring. If he goes, he might miss it. If he blinks, it might be gone. If he turns his back, it might never come again.

He doesn't even know what he's waiting for.

A miracle maybe, but that's cliché and probably not the case. A chance to go back in time, but he knows that he would do everything the same. That's the weird thing about being human, being a Winchester, being Dean. He knows who he is and won't deny it for the world – except for Sam. He'll deny it in a heartbeat. If Sam wants it bad enough, then Dean can lie and tell him it could be different – but it won't be. It never would be. Dean wouldn't be able to live with Sam anywhere but at his side, and that's the one thing that his younger brother would try to change.

So he stays, staring and waiting. Waiting for eternity, for the rain to stop pouring, pounding, drowning out his senses, obscuring his view with the vast sheet of wet in front of him, around him. He can feel Sam's eyes boring through windshield glass and water and into the back of his skull – his soaked and dirtied skull – but he doesn't turn around. He almost doesn't want to, but can't quite put those words to it. They seem too harsh and too cold and too bare, especially since he nearly didn't have the option as to whether or not he wanted to turn and see his kid sibling. Not him alive, not him happy or laughing, not him brooding or glaring –

Not Sam. Not _his_ Sam.

Hell, he doesn't even know if this guy that looks like his brother, sounds like his brother, acts – for the most part – like his brother really _is_ his brother. He might be, but at the same time there's that sliver of doubt that lingers in Dean's mind. Maybe he's not. Maybe everyone else is right and he's only part Sam, part whatever hell-spawn has been rumored to be seeking him out. But Dean doesn't want to believe that, won't believe that, would sooner drown himself than believe it.

Right now, though, is a time that has to be spent doing other things. What was the point in worrying and ruining a moment that was forever to be remembered and embraced as, for lack of better descriptive words, wet? Spot on: there was none, so he bites his lip and keeps looking forward. Always forward. Always right ahead, getting two steps in before people are able to catch up because that's what a hunter had to do. That's what an older brother had to do, and he had to be the older, had to assume that brother role before it was too late. That's what Sam wanted, right? That's what Sam –

Before he rightly knows it Sam is right behind him, hand on his shoulder and giving it a slight jerk. The rumble of the Impala's engine must have been cut some time ago, because only now did Dean register that everything was quiet except for the pitter-patter-pitter-patter of rain hitting everything. His jacket – Dad's old jacket, because like everything else John had handed it down to his eldest son, along with too much responsibility – would be ruined, and he knew it, but that hardly phases him at the moment. Some kind of a trance has taken hold of him, and Dean has fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. 

"You coming back to the car any time soon?" the younger asks, his voice somehow reasonably steady and audible over the distant roar of thunder. 

Dean purses his lips and squints his eyes slightly before the corners of his mouth pulls downward into his characteristic look of semi-thoughtfulness. "Nah," he drawls at long last, his answer almost obscured by a sudden rush of wind. A blast of sea-spray washes up and hits him in the face violently. He almost spits it away, but embraces it as something that may not happen again. "Not yet. Gimme a minute."

He doesn't know why he needs a minute, doesn't know why it feels so good for Sam to release his hold on his shoulder, but he does know that the sense of freedom and relief that washes over him is well worth it. He can stand on his own, Sam can stand just as easily, and the force of the gale isn't doing a thing to knock either of them back. He figures it's a good sign, and takes it without complaint – or at least, without much of one.

He can almost remember the times as a kid that he would want to see the ocean. He always thought that it would be, well, big, and it is. It's huge, in every sense of the word: it's expansive and empty, yet so full, and always carrying on to something more, something beyond. Dean used to be pretty sure he wanted to be out there, away form everything he was constantly surrounded by, considering he wasn't held down by so many things, so many obligations. Now, though, he isn't so sure about it. The ocean is just an ocean, and a seagull is still a seagull, even inland. It's one of those complicated metaphors that takes thinking about to understand, but he's pretty sure that if he were to say it to Sam it would turn out just about right sounding.

Like this moment. This moment is just about right and he knows it. He wishes that he could make it clear enough so that Sam knew things like these were supposed to be treasured because they wouldn't last, but somehow, he felt that it wasn't needed. Words were accessories any longer: a dying breed, something of vanity and complexities. He only has one hundred seventeen days – why waste them with things that the world already knows?

Minutes passed, long ones with weight dragging them down and making them unbearably heavy. The scent of wet leather is slowly becoming obvious, and painfully so. He doesn't like it, but doesn't do anything about it. He can hear Sam shuffling his feet behind him, waiting, and then silence. Dean turns. "C'mon," he says, and with a jerk of his head toward the Impala, he shoves his hands into his pockets and kicks up a storm of pebbles jammed somewhere between a miniature river and mud.

There's a hole in his shoe and he's only faintly aware of it at the time being. However, as he settles into his seat, it becomes annoyingly clear, and he kicks it off, putting his foot to the pedal with only a wet sock between skin and metal. Sam is quiet beside him, slouched and equally wet, and for a while, everything seems normal.

Like it should be.


End file.
